


the sun can bend an orange

by erebones



Series: Stardew Valley [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anonymous Sex, Background casphardt, Bathroom Sex, Clubbing, Cunnilingus, Dancing, Dick Jokes, Dildos, First Meetings, First Time, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Toys, Squirting, Stardew Valley AU, Trans Claude von Riegan, Trans Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, and other stuff happens in between lol, lots of sex tags but they only do it twice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25324243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Claude von Riegan has his work cut out for him: restoring his grandfather's dilapidated farm, learning the ins and outs of crops and livestock, and establishing himself in a community that's slow to embrace strangers. But when he heads out to Oasis Springs for a night on the town, he ends up finding even more reasons to stay.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Series: Stardew Valley [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834249
Comments: 16
Kudos: 113
Collections: Fire Emblem Trans Week 2020!





	the sun can bend an orange

**Author's Note:**

> I've been chipping away at this for a while, and finally FE Trans Week gave me the push to finish the first installment of my Stardew Valley inspired series! This is for day 2, modern AU. There will be more to follow in this series, all with different ships and characters, exploring their dynamics in this setting. 
> 
> Content warnings for this fic: Claude is a trans man, and Lorenz is trans/genderfluid and uses he/him pronouns. Claude is a little more traditionally masc; he's had top surgery, wears a packer, etc. During sex I use masc-affirming terms for his bits (cock, folds, etc). Lorenz is more fluid; he hasn't had top surgery and presents a little more fem. During sex I use more fem-aligned terms (clit, pussy, etc). If any more tags or CW's are required that I missed please let me know!

The Stardrop is almost deserted at this time of day, but Claude doesn’t mind it. He keeps weird hours, doing everything he can to get the old Riegan farm up to speed for a late spring planting, and sometimes that means dropping by for a drink and a bite halfway through the day when most everyone else in Pelican Town is busy working, or studying, or doing whatever small-town things make up the minutiae of their day.

 _Most_ , but not all.

“How’s the farm?” Sylvain asks, swirling his plastic diner cup of ginger beer around under his nose like it’s a ten-year malt.

“Taking shape. Slowly.” Claude steals a chip off his plate. “I’m hoping to have the raised beds ready to start parsnips in a few days, and I got the bean trellises set up. Garlic’s starting to germinate indoors so I can move it out soon once the threat of frost is past.”

“Never a dull moment, eh?” He taps his cup against Claude’s pint. “You give any thought to my suggestion?”

“Chickens, you mean?”

“That’s right. I’ve got a few lovely ladies just waiting for the right bachelor to take them in. And I have it on good authority that _you_ are the hottest new bachelor in town.” Sylvain winks.

Claude laughs. “What a stellar recommendation. Let me talk to Leonie about building a coop and I’ll get back to you, how’s that?” He leans back in the booth and sighs, contemplating the last few inches of his pint. Alois is a great bartender and an even better host, but his personal forays into microbrewing leave a little to be desired. Claude wonders if he could rig something up at the farm. Growing hops can’t be that hard, right? He makes a mental note to look it up later.

“In all seriousness,” Sylvain continues, oblivious to Claude’s distraction, “if you wanted to buy a few hens we can board them at Mari’s until you’re ready to take them on yourself. I can bring your eggs by every couple days. No sense in you buyin’ ’em from Pierre’s when we’re just down the road.”

“You sure?” Claude asks, a little surprised by the offer. “That’s a lot of running around for you.”

Sylvain shrugs. “No more than usual. Certainly nothing compared to all the running _you’ve_ been doing. And it takes me past the nice pair of legs that lives in that swanky beachfront cottage, so really _I’m_ the one getting the better end of the deal.”

“Oh yeah? Are my eggs in danger of being waylaid?”

“Nah, don’t worry. It’s very much a _look and appreciate but don’t touch_ situation.” Sylvain slurps his ginger beer noisily. “I have a thing for legs, that’s all.”

Claude hums. “Pegged you for a tits man, myself.”

“Ha! In the right circumstance, sure. Doesn’t matter too much, though, seeing as I’ve sworn off romantical attachments… among other things.” The ice in his cup rattles forlornly against the bottom of his straw. “At least for now.”

Claude ponders this a moment or two. “Speaking of which… I hope this isn’t too forward, but you seem like the kind of guy I could ask about this…”

“Spit it out, von Riegan,” Sylvain says cheerfully. “I’ve seen a lot and I’m not offended by much.”

“I was wondering if there was anywhere around these parts where a guy can really cut loose, if you know what I mean.”

Sylvain rears back a little like he’s blown ginger beer up his nose—and then he grins, oily and cocksure. “Hey, you can cut loose with _me_ anytime you like.”

Claude laughs. “No offense, mate, but I don’t think you’re looking for the type of _cutting loose_ I mean.”

“Oh, like— _ohhh_.”

“I feel a little funny asking so bluntly, but small towns can be hit or miss for… queer folks. And I don’t really want to get mixed up with the people here anyway, not for something casual.” Claude glances around the taproom, still mostly empty at this time of day except for Alois cheerfully polishing the already-spotless bar, humming under his breath. “Pelican Town’s too tight-knit. Especially for an outsider. I don’t wanna… disrupt the status quo, you know?”

“If you’re worried,” Sylvain says, settling down into something approaching _serious_ , “don’t be. This place is like a magnet for folks of all stripes. I won’t name names, but we got some of every flavor—I swing a few different ways myself, I’ll admit.” He tips his ginger beer amiably when Claude offers his own in a toast. “Well, never let it be said that Sylvain Jose Gautier isn’t up for a good time, but if it’s _that_ kind of fun you’re looking for, you’ll have to get back on the bus. Cathy drives to and from Oasis Springs twice a day, Tuesdays and Thursdays, and sometimes on weekends if there’s a festival on. It’s not really my speed anymore, but Prism should have what you’re looking for—whatever that is.”

“Cheers.” This time Claude clinks their glasses together audibly, licking the foam off his thumb when his beer nearly slops onto the table. “And, sorry. For misjudging you.”

“No misjudgement here, I know how I come off,” Sylvain laughs. “And I do have a kid, so.”

“Still. That doesn’t preclude… anything.”

“True. Y’know, you’re a good sort, Claude. I’m glad you came to town.”

“Thanks,” Claude says cheerfully. “I’m starting to agree.”

><

It’s funny how much difference a half-hour bus ride can make. Claude steps out into a brighter, hotter sun than he left behind in Pelican Town, blooming against his skin like a rose even as it settles into the saddle of the horizon. He shields his eyes against the sunset and glances around him.

Oasis Springs is small but bustling, half the size of Pelican Town’s square footage but at least twice, if not thrice, its population. There’s an open-air market in the process of shutting down, mostly handmade goods and crafts, and a small arthouse theatre with classic blinking bulb lights advertising a two-screen showing of films whose names he doesn’t recognize. _Have I been out of modern civilization for that long?_ It’s only been a month, but it feels like years. He stuffs his newly calloused hands into the pockets of his jeans—a little looser-fitting than he prefers, after all the manual labor he’s been putting into the farm—and sets off down the road in search of Prism.

Sylvain had given him directions jotted down on a scrap of paper, but he doesn’t need them. At the end of the main thoroughfare, squashed between an arcade and a Wild West-style saloon called _Speakeasy_ , is a tall, narrow brick facade painted black with the word PRISM in clean modern halogen letters affixed above the open door.

There’s a bouncer, but she waves him in with the barest glance at his ID. Surprising, since his Almyran passport is probably different from the ID she usually sees, but he’ll take it. Inside he’s met with a clean but well-buffed wooden floor, abused each night by dancing feet, and a bar that stretches almost the length of the room. It’s not too busy yet, so he takes advantage of the open stretch of stools toward the back—noting the open doors that spill onto a large patio with a fire pit—and orders something at random from the tap.

He isn’t expecting to be approached right away, but he’s only had a few sips of his pale ale when someone swings onto the stool next to him. A whiff of perfume, something subtle, floral, but warm and spicy rather than sweet; a flash of purple as long colorful hair swings in front of their face and then is pushed back behind an ear. Claude dabs a droplet of bear from the corner of his mouth and turns.

“Evening,” he says, friendly-like. He means to say more, but his mouth grows abruptly dry at the vision next to him. Long legs, short leather skirt, high-heeled booties, a shirt sheer enough to see a lace bralette underneath. A quick glance past them shows plenty of empty stools where the beautiful stranger could have chosen to sit—but they didn’t. They sat here, next to him, and are currently leveling a smooth, faintly knowing smile his way outlined in burgundy lip gloss smudged artfully at the bottom edge of their lower lip.

“Hello,” they say, voice smooth and aristocratic, like that fancy yellow grass-fed goat butter Claude used to covet at JojaMart, and would always inevitably bypass for the cheap stuff. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“Are you a regular, then?” Claude asks, and stifles a wince. He can do better than _come here often?_ “It’s my first time, actually. Recent transplant to the area.”

“Well, welcome to Prism. I’m Lorenz.” A slender, manicured hand is extended his way, and Claude takes it, eyes falling to the bag hanging off their shoulder. There’s a few pretty enamel pins affixed to the strap, including a rainbow and a _he/him_ pronoun button, and Claude rearranges the terms in his head a little as the handshake turns into a softer, slower thing. “I’m not actually a local, but I enjoy the atmosphere here. Difficult to get a decent cocktail in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes you just don’t feel like making it yourself.”

There’s a funny little emphasis on the first half of _cocktail_ , and it stokes a chuckle to life in Claude’s chest. “I know what you mean. This is the first time I’ve gotten a chance to cut loose since I moved.”

“Then we’ll have to be sure to show you a good time,” Lorenz says, and the sound of his voice when he says it, _oof_ , Claude can feel it in his boxers.

His eyes fasten on the empty stretch of bar in front of his new companion. “Can I get you a drink? As a thank you for being the first to sit down next to the new guy.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Lorenz laughs, performing a slight hair flip that sends another waft of his rich floral perfume in Claude’s direction. “But I _will_ accept a drink.”

“Deal. What’s your poison?”

Lorenz hums and taps his fingernails against the gleaming wood. “While it does sound like fun to make you guess, I’m really rather parched, so I’ll have a mule, please. Extra lime.”

“Coming right up,” Claude promises. “Well, whenever I can flag down the bartender.”

Somewhere between Lorenz’s arrival and now, Prism has really started to fill up. A few patrons seem local, casually dressed, at ease as they neg the bouncer and the bartenders with the familiarity of long attendance. But the majority of patrons have _tourist_ stamped all over them, and Claude can see he was lucky to get a drink as early as he did.

“Might be a bit of a wait,” he says as he makes eye contact with the bartender and receives a nod of acknowledgement in return. “Want anything else to take the edge off? Shots?”

“Oh my, you’re not playing around,” Lorenz demurs, but he doesn’t sound as put out as his words imply. “I suppose I can pretend to be a college student for a night.”

“So, tequila?”

Lorenz laughs outright, and it’s cultured and eerily _practiced_ , like he’d stood in front of a mirror and laughed over and over again until it was that smooth mirror-finish perfect that you only hear on TV. But his eyes crinkle up and his teeth are straight and just slightly too large in the front, and Claude… dammit, Claude is _charmed_. Butterflies and everything. Fuck.

The tequila shots come first, with a shaker of salt and two lime wedges, and Lorenz _tink_ s their little glasses together before throwing it back in one practiced swallow. Claude wipes a stray droplet off his lower lip, watching his Adam’s apple bob in place. _Hell._

“Are you going to be all right?” Lorenz asks, probing salt out of the corner of his mouth with a delicate pink tongue. “Mixing beer and liquor.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. I mostly stick to beer because it doesn’t hit me as hard. We’ll call the shot an appetizer.” He slides the empty glasses stuffed with their desiccated limes to the other side of the bar and leans his elbow on the wood, glancing across the room. The music is still the same easy listening pop mix that was on when he entered, loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to drown out conversation entirely, but from the number of people trickling onto the dance floor, that might be about to change.

“Do you dance?” Lorenz asks. His mule arrives, and he curls his fingers around the delicate stem of the handle like it’s a cup of tea, pinkie slightly crooked like it wants to lift up but knows this isn’t the right venue.

“I’ve been known to,” Claude says, faking evasiveness before laughing. “Yeah, it was one of my favorite pastimes back home, before work got…” He wiggles his fingers in the universal gesture for _fucked_. “So I can cut a rug pretty well, if you wanna get out there.”

“After our drinks, perhaps.” Lorenz’s eyes gleam with curiosity, but he doesn’t press the work issue, for which Claude is grateful. It’s kind of a bummer of a story, and he has a feeling this glossy, perfumed vision won’t care much about the dirty grit and grind of building his grandfather’s farm back up from square one. Besides, talking about work is boring. He’d rather get on the dance floor and get his hands up Lorenz’s skirt and just switch off for the night. _Bliss._

They chat about other things over their drinks, while people flow around them and the music starts to throb in his breastbone. Their favorite artists and styles, their dance experience, anecdotes from ballet lessons and school performances and college parties. When the beat picks up and Lorenz’s manicure starts tapping on the bar in time, it’s easy to slide off the stool and pull him out onto the dance floor.

It’s not quite full dark outside, but it’s dark in here. Illuminated in neon flashes, Lorenz pulls up hard against him, unafraid to work their bodies close in the crowd. Claude gets a hand around his narrow waist, sinuous and slippery as an eel, and he feels capable hands settle at his shoulders, drift lower.

Claude flexes a little, blurs his smile against the column of Lorenz’s long neck. Not quite a kiss, just the smudge of cheek to cheek, breathing in sweat and roses. It’s not perfume after all, he realizes. It’s his hair, long and purple and sleek, like silk whenever it brushes the side of his face. He wants to bury his nose in it (and his fingers), but that feels too forward for a first dance—a third—a fourth.

He’s sweating lightly in the summer warmth, the crush of bodies, when Lorenz says something about being thirsty. Something about _thank you_. For a moment Claude’s heart drops, thinking Lorenz is angling for a different partner, but Lorenz just smiles and gives his wrist a tug back to the bar.

“What’re you drinking?” he asks, softer than he needs to, close enough that his lips nearly brush Claude’s ear. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and gooseflesh prickles down his arms as he spreads his hand proprietarily against the small of Lorenz’s back.

“Pale ale,” he says against Lorenz’s rounded jaw. “Please.”

There’s only one stool available now, so Claude gestures for Lorenz to take it while they catch their breath. His heart is still thudding in his chest, and every time he shifts his weight he can feel the slick that’s gathered between his legs, but it’s a nice subtle throb, not insistent or distracting. Their drinks arrive and Claude swallows his beer down, savoring the bitterness as he stands between Lorenz’s knees and tries not to read too much into it.

“It’s a bit noisy in here,” Lorenz says, licking sugar off the rim of his bright pink cosmo. Claude wants to lick it off _him_ , but that feels impolite, so he takes another sip of beer instead. “Want to check out the patio? You haven’t been out there yet, have you.”

Claude shakes his head. “Let’s go.”

Lorenz slides off the stool and right up against Claude’s front, a wicked curl to his ruby-red lips as he links his finger with Claude’s lapel. “Follow me.”

Prism is crowded enough that they have to fight their way along the edge of the dance floor just to get to the back doors, but once they make it there the patio is more manageable. A couple Adirondack chairs sit around a brick fire pit, where a low, steady-burning fire licks lazily at blackened logs. Claude breathes in the smell of real woodsmoke and slides into one of the free chairs, trying not to startle when Lorenz perches on the arm of the chair instead of choosing one of his own.

“Easier to talk,” Lorenz explains, so he must not have hid his surprise very well. “If that’s all right.”

“It’s great.” Claude looks up at him and drops his hand to Lorenz’s thigh. Yeah, this is nice. Real nice.

It’s easier to talk out here, without the immediate crush of people and noise, and Lorenz is just easy to talk to in general. They continue to avoid the job discussion, by silent mutual agreement, and instead chat about what drew them to Prism in the first place, what drew them to this part of the country. Their answers to both those questions are eerily similar: looking for freedom.

“Prism is a unique place,” Lorenz says, staring into his half-finished drink. “It’s owned by a lesbian couple but it’s not an _exclusively_ gay bar—it’s the only nightclub in Oasis Springs, so it opens its doors to everyone. But I feel… safe here.” His lips quirk ruefully. “Even surrounded by heterosexual tourists.”

“How long have you been coming here?” Claude asks, genuinely curious, and also maybe fishing for more information about his new friend.

“Not too long. I found it a few months ago, and I try to come out every week. Otherwise I’d wither away for lack of social interaction.” Violet eyes gleam as he sips the last dregs of their cosmo. “Can I ask what drew _you_ here?”

“A friend’s recommendation, which I’m _very_ grateful for. I haven’t seen civilization in weeks.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for rustic.” Lorenz’s voice is lilted, prodding the edges of their conversation for weak points.

“No? Maybe my callouses aren’t as noticeable as I thought,” Claude laughs. The weight of his hand on Lorenz’s thigh is suddenly heavier than before, almost accusatory; but Lorenz only reaches out and picks up his hand curiously, running his smooth, unblemished palm over scarred knuckles and the callous Claude has started to develop on the edge of his thumb from chopping firewood. The days are mild, but the nights still get bitterly cold, and he’s eating through his grandfather’s meagre supply of seasoned wood left over from the last winter he spent on the farm.

“You work with your hands,” Lorenz says after a minute. He doesn’t let go. “That’s admirable. I admit I don’t have the talent for it, but I have great respect for those who do.”

“It’s fulfilling, at least for now. But I do miss going out and meeting new people. Drinking, dancing.” _Fucking_ , he thinks, even though it was never his top priority when he lived in the city. Once in a while, sure, but he was too overworked and depressed to put much effort in finding a partner, short-term or otherwise.

“Well, now you can have both.” Lorenz squeezes his hand and lets it go, back to rest high on his thigh. Higher than before; Claude’s pinky is almost brushing the hem of his skirt. “Do you like it so far?”

“The drinks or the dancing?”

“Either. Both.”

“Very enjoyable. But what I really like about Prism is the company.” Claude winks, and gets a mellow laugh in response.

“Aren’t you charming.”

“Only for you.”

“Hmph. Bet you say that to all the boys.”

"Just the pretty ones." Claude dares to stroke beneath Lorenz’s skirt under the cover of firelit night and he hums, leaning into the touch with a curled-up half-smile like a cat who’s found the cream. Claude takes a breath. "Can I get you another drink?"

Lorenz tilts his head as if considering, hair smooth and silken where it brushes Claude’s cheek. "I'm all set on drinks, I think,” he says, “but I am open to… other varieties of entertainment."

Claude’s chest flutters. He strokes a thumb along the line of his stocking’s inseam, as precise as a train on a predetermined track. It feels like luck—like fate—when Lorenz’s thighs open a little wider, inviting his curious touch. "I'm up for whatever. Just say the word."

Lorenz hums, observing him. Then he leans in, ostensibly to pluck a piece of lint from Claude’s collar. The new position puts him at eye level with Claude, perfect for leaning in and brushing the lightest of pecks to the shell of his ear as he whispers, "Bathroom, two minutes. Furthest stall on the left."

Oh, so it's like _that_. Despite himself, Claude burns with eagerness as he leans back against the chair and watches Lorenz’s progress through the crush of bodies on the dance floor. It's been awhile since he's had a good old-fashioned bathroom fuck. He’s probably going to have to pay a visit to Linhardt tomorrow—but frankly, he thinks as he checks his watch and stands from the chair, it's gonna be worth it.

The bathroom, when he pushes through the swinging door, is poorly-lit but less dingy that he’d been bracing for. He passes the bloke humming to himself at one of the urinals and slinks to the stall Lorenz had indicated. He barely has to press the cool teal metal with his fingertips before it’s swinging open to reveal Lorenz just in the midst of tucking a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer back into his bag.

“Oh, here you are.” Pink-cheeked, eyes glittering and hazy in the low light, Lorenz presses the bottle into his hands and wraps his arms around Claude’s neck. “Finally.”

It’s difficult applying hand sanitizer when someone else’s tongue is in your mouth, but Claude manages it. He also manages to squeeze the bottle back into his purse and close the zipper before giving in to impulse and sliding his hands up Lorenz’s shirt. His palms find the coarse lace of his bralette and mold against the softness there, and Lorenz moans very quietly into his mouth.

“Okay?” Claude whispers, just to be sure.

Lorenz nods his head in a hurry, nearly clocking his skull on the metal wall. He peels the bralette up and sighs when Claude gets his hands on his bare tits, squeezing gently and rolling the nipples beneath his thumbs. “Fuck,” he sighs very softly. His eyes follow him, sharply violet, hallucinogenic-bright as Claude drags his mouth over the soft skin and sucks a nipple into his mouth.

“What do you like?” Claude asks. He hooks a hand behind one long thigh and gives him a squeeze right beneath his bum, fingers a scant two inches under his miniskirt.

“I like,” Lorenz breathes against his lips, “to be _fucked_.” His ankle loops around the back of Claude’s calf, inviting, and it’s fucking _painful_ to have to laugh, self-deprecating, and drop his forehead to Lorenz’s shoulder in defeat.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s not—I’d love to, trust me, I just didn’t bring my dick with me tonight, unfortunately.” He lifts his head, enjoying the bloom of confusion-realization-surprise that travels across Lorenz’s face.

“Oh,” Lorenz says. He bites his lip, visibly struggling not to laugh out loud. “Well. That is a minor complication, but not a disappointment by any means.”

“Good.” Claude lets his thumb stroke up, nearly meeting the seam where thigh abuts groin. “I, uh. I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.” He gets a single raised eyebrow. _Go on_. “Would you like me to prove it?”

“Please,” Lorenz breathes, and pulls his skirt up the rest of the way. “Try to keep my tights clean, these were expensive.”

“Roger that.”

Claude reaches up under his skirt, finds the waistband of his tights, and peels them down his legs as he kisses the lip gloss off Lorenz’s mouth. The skirt maintains its shape, staying put where Lorenz has hiked it up around his waist, and that makes it easy for Claude to stroke his hips, to rub his knuckles up and down the smooth skin of his lower belly, down to tease between his legs.

He’s wearing thin panties made of soft, stretchy material; when Claude rubs his fingers against it, the fabric is damp. He nibbles Lorenz’s lower lip and eases his hand inside to stroke there, softly, feeling the hot slick welling up at the slightest touch.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs, smiling when Lorenz twitches against him. “How long have you been wet?”

“Since we were dancing,” Lorenz admits. He props his heel up a little higher, opening himself to Claude’s hand despite the constriction of his tights around his thighs. His core is hot and slippery, and Claude nudges his clit before slipping two fingers easily into his body.

He knows they need to be quick, but he can’t help it; Lorenz is worth savoring. His small, bitten-off moans, the squeeze of his muscles around his fingers, the way he claws at Claude’s collar in desperation—it’s addicting. Claude hums soft encouragements and fucks him with three fingers, and it’s probably not the most finesse he’s ever employed, but it gets Lorenz off twice in quick succession, which is pretty good for a quick fuck in a public bathroom.

“Okay,” Lorenz whispers, lipgloss smeared all to hell. “Okay. Your turn.”

Claude doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but Lorenz dropping to his haunches, balanced neatly on his high heels, was definitely not it. A dark-eyed look, a silent question, and Claude fumbles with his jeans, shoving his underwear out of the way with the bulge of his packer safely tucked inside its pocket. But Lorenz bypasses his cock and goes for his thighs instead, meaty and strong after a month and a half of hard labor. He’s messy on purpose, smearing his lip color in dark swathes, licking along the crease of Claude’s groin until his lips are bare enough to wrap around his prick.

Now it’s Claude’s turn to struggle to stay quiet. He holds Lorenz’s hands to his own hips and watches his purple head bob between his thighs, and it feels like fireworks are going off inside him. He doesn’t have to ask to not be penetrated, Lorenz just _knows_ somehow—or is just obscenely good at reading Claude’s body language. His tongue is long and hot and curls so beautifully against his cock, fingers braced on either side in a V shape to coax it away from his body, and Claude really doesn’t take long at all.

In the wake of orgasm, as reality fades back cloaked in static, Claude realizes two things. One, he can hear the song they’re playing pounding through the wall, throbbing with a twisty techno beat, the tell-tale sign of a remix. _Your body is a cage, I am a prisoner—_

Second, his fingers are still wet.

He lifts his hand and licks Lorenz off his fingers without really thinking about it. When he looks down, Lorenz is still on his heels, staring up at him with his mouth rose-pink but bare of makeup. Claude drags his ring finger from his lips with a _pop_. “C’mere.”

He pulls Lorenz to him, coaxing a kiss from him as Lorenz begins settling his clothing. It feels fast, suddenly—too fast. He wants to pin Lorenz to the wall and kiss him stupid, or get his mouth on him and suck him dry. He wants to lay Lorenz out in his bed and fuck him properly, like he’d asked.

“What do you think?” Claude asks, rearranging his boxers and fly, mouth still stinging with the taste of pussy and ethyl alcohol. “Wanna get out of here?”

Lorenz lets the elastic of his tights snap around his waist and resettles his skirt. “No offense,” he says, “but I’m not that kind of man.”

“Not _what_ kind of man?”

Lorenz pauses in the midst of French tucking his shirt and gives Claude a once-over so scorching hot he almost checks to see whether his clothes have caught fire. “The kind who goes home with handsome strangers without even knowing their names.”

Claude’s brain short circuits. _Wait_. Has he really gone this entire evening, buying him drinks and getting his tongue wet, without _introducing_ himself? Under the weight of Lorenz’s amused smirk, he fumbles for his manners. “Well, that’s easily rectified. My name is—”

He stops, halted in place by the soft, dewy press of a finger to his lips. Lorenz leans in, dark-eyed, a wisp of lavender hair sticking to the traces of sweat beaded on his temple. “Shh. I like a little mystery.”

It’s like he’s been suckerpunched by an ocean nymph. Claude gapes, wordless, breath stolen by this beautiful man who makes the inside of a dingy bathroom stall look dramatic and whimsical. It’s his world, bright and starlit, and Claude is just living in it.

Then the stall door bangs shut behind him and Claude is alone. He waits a minute longer, for courtesy, then ducks out of the stall and washes his hands before going to pay his tab. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll come back next week and find his little mermaid here again, winding and sweating under the lights; but a part of him feels, as he slumps into a seat and waits for the bus to rumble to life, that tonight was only a mirage.

_Guess I’ll find out next week._

><

Next week, unfortunately, doesn’t quite happen like he hopes. He arranged to have Leonie swing by with her mountain of a Percheron to drag out some of the more persistent stumps getting in the way of his cornfield, which needs to have been planted _yesterday_ , and that takes longer than expected. Then he walks the quarter mile to Marianne’s to see about boarding some chickens and gets caught up in conversation with Sylvain, and by the time he gets back the sun is low in the sky and the bus to Oasis Springs is long gone.

He takes a long, cold shower to soothe the sting of disappointment. When he gets out, the outfit he’d set aside earlier in the day is still waiting for him at the end of the bed—his tightest-fitting ankle jeans, his newest, cleanest, hippest tee-shirt, the colorful socks—and sighs.

But there’s no point in wasting a nice outfit, and he’s hankering for a drink and food he doesn’t have to cook himself—and maybe a pipe if Linhardt’s around—so he dresses himself, trims his beard, dabs on a bit of woodsy scent, and sets off for town.

It’s only twenty minutes on foot, but the sun is well set by the time he pushes his way into the Stardrop Saloon. Alois hails him from across the taproom, which is still bustling and lively at seven on a Friday evening, and Claude shoulders his way between tables, clasping hands and extending greetings as he goes.

Caspar is at the bar with a few others, including his not-so-secret boyfriend, and Claude is immediately pulled into conversation. His arrival is like summoning bees to honey. Townsfolk come by to ask after the farm, after _him_ , their initial distrust and vague amusement transformed into excitement at Claude’s determination to turn the decaying farm around. Some go on by, some buy him a beer, some stay awhile.

It’s like he’s holding court. Sylvain is happy to wax poetic for a while about his choice of chickens; Seteth wants to have a word about some of the old rusty tools Claude had found in his initial tilling of the pumpkin patch; Annette is appreciative of the antique farmer’s almanacs he’d donated to her growing library. Even Mayor von Aegir stops by briefly, rosy-faced and uncharacteristically unbuttoned from his formal daily wear, to ask his opinion on fixing up the dilapidated old community center.

He loses track of time for a while, but at some point Alois plunks the day’s special fish fry in front of him, and the last of the disappointment of missing the bus dissolves like a dream, washed away with ale and conversation and hot, greasy fries. It’s not Prism, but it’s cozy and welcoming and—he realizes rather abruptly, with a little pang of emotion in his breast—it’s _home_.

“What do you say?” Caspar asks as he’s finishing up the last of his fish, bathed liberally in lemon juice and tartar sauce. “Best of three?”

“You’re on.” Claude scrubs his fingers clean with a wet wipe and pulls out his wallet. “Let me just—”

“Don’t be silly,” Alois blusters. “It’s been taken care of.”

“What? By who?”

“Don’t you worry about it.” The barkeep winks and sails on to the next customer, so Claude lets Caspar pull him away from the throng of people and into the back room where Alois keeps his collection of antique arcade games.

There’s a bunch of different consoles, some more well-kept than others, all arranged around a pool table where Ashe is currently teaching Dedue how to hustle, but the place of pride belongs to a single-player game called _Journey of the Prairie King_. Claude has given it an idle shot a few times when he’s killing time between drinks, but has never managed to get far; it demands quick reflexes and a keen command of the finicky controls, so he’s never made it past level five. Linhardt, apparently, is an expert—no one has been able to touch his childhood record, which tells Claude just how long the game has been around—but Caspar is a little too impulsive and impatient to master the finesse required, so Claude figures he has a decent shot of winning.

Caspar goes first, yelling enthusiastically every time he beats back a sally of wicked knights. Linhardt sits on the end of the pool table and watches with heavy-lidded amusement, taking occasional drags of his mint-flavored vape. He offers Claude a hit, and declines when Claude asks if he wants to take a shot of his own.

“I’ve already won,” he says with a shrug, “I don’t have anything else to prove.”

“One day I’ll beat your record, Lin,” Caspar declares, sweaty and out of breath after reaching level three and promptly dying. He lifts the hem of his shirt to dab sweat from his brow, showing off an impressive set of abs. Linhardt blows a smoke ring at him. “Alright Claude, your go. See if you can beat _that_.”

Claude’s confidence wanes quickly. Apparently he’s had more to drink than he realized, what with people buying him beers left and right, and his reflexes are shot. Still, he scrapes out a better score midway through level three and accepts the solemn fist-bump Linhardt gives him behind a mist-wreathed smile.

“Ugh! Unbelievable. Fine, you asked for it. This time I’m gonna _cream_ your ass.”

“You’d better not,” Linhardt remarks evenly, and Claude laugh so hard he cries.

“You keep him honest, okay,” he says when he catches his breath, “I’m going to grab a drink of water.”

Linhardt salutes him with his vape pen. “I’ll do my best.”

Claude claps Caspar on the shoulder on his way out and wheedles a cup of water from Annie, who’s helping behind the bar now that things have picked up a bit. Not quite ready to face the crowd, which is a little louder and more friendly with the flowing beer, he squeezes along the side of the taproom and out into the cool night.

And nearly trips over someone also on their way out. The beer in his system has him stumbling, nearly pitching head-first down the small set of stairs—but a strong pair of hands save him from cracking his head open, and his water only slops a little onto their close-fitting jeans.

“Fuck, sorry,” Claude blurts, shaking ice water off his hand as he looks up. Wait. “ _Lorenz_?”

It _is_ Lorenz, unmistakably. Tall, beautiful, and smelling like a field of sun-warm flowers, familiar even though he’s dressed in high-waisted skinny jeans and a pretty blouse instead of leather and lace. “Er, hello,” Lorenz says, solidifying his beery vision into ice-water reality. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, blushing in the warm yellow light that spills out through the window in the Saloon’s front door.

Belatedly, Claude pulls himself together. “Sorry for tripping over you, I just wanted some air. Hang on, do you _live_ here?”

“A little ways out of town, yes.”

“How come I haven’t seen you around before?” Claude asks, dialing back the tipsy surprise. Lorenz seems almost upset to see him, and he doesn’t want _that_ to be his second impression. “I mean, I know I’m on the farm most of the time, but…”

“I’m a bit of a recluse,” Lorenz admits, something stiff and haughty touching his pristinely polite tone. “I think most of Pelican Town regards me as something of an oddity.”

 _We’ve got all types_ , Sylvain had said, easily and without censure. Claude wonders how much of that is his own cis perspective. Whether Lorenz might say differently.

“Well you’re here now,” Claude says easily, determined to reach out, to keep him close. To make him feel welcome, the way everyone here had done for him. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Lorenz’s stiff mouth relaxes a little. He’s not wearing lip gloss, and Claude finds himself missing the glistening color of it smudging on his inner thighs, sticking and staining until he’d washed it off the next morning in the shower. “I thought you were in the middle of an arcade tournament.”

Oh right. “You were watching?”

“Not exactly, but Caspar is a bit… well, his voice carries,” Lorenz says politely, and Claude laughs.

“True enough. Well, I am a man of my word. So how about you watch me wipe the floor with his ass, and _then_ I can buy you a drink.”

“A difficult proposition to turn down.”

“That’s not a yes,” Claude teases, just enough beer still in his system to push the envelope a little.

“It’s not a no, either.” Lorenz raises an eyebrow at him. “You never mentioned you were _the_ Claude von Riegan, when we met before.”

And just like that, the ice is broken. Claude lets himself remember that night in full, remember the heat in his body and the butterflies in his chest. Lets himself drift a little closer, so that their elbows brush. If he were a little taller he’d be within kissing distance. “You never gave me a chance,” he murmurs, and relishes the blush that crawls up Lorenz’s face. It gives him the honesty to admit, “I didn’t think you’d be interested in a farmer.”

Lorenz’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “And what gave you that impression?”

Claude shrugs. “You’re beautiful. Classy. Sorry for jumping to conclusions, but in my experience people like that aren’t keen on getting their hands dirty.”

“Proved you wrong, then, didn’t I.” Lorenz curls his fingers in, admiring his own nails. Short and rounded enough not to snag when they push-pulled at the hood of his cock, but long enough to be stylish and noticeably clean. Claude shivers. “All right. Buy me that drink, von Riegan.”

“And then?” Claude asks, testing the waters.

“And then we’ll see.” Lorenz shakes his hair out, a long, glossy curtain, and Claude follows on his heels all the way back to the bar.

With a bit of water in him and the beer running out, he does even better at _Prairie King_ , good enough that Caspar has to beg Linhardt to salvage some of his pride. Linhardt does so handily, even though he professes not to have touched the machine since his historic level 69 win fifteen years ago. Lorenz watches and smiles over the rim of his wineglass, and congratulates Claude for his almost-win with a kiss to the cheek.

By then the Saloon is nearly to closing time, so Claude offers—soberly this time—to walk Lorenz home. After all, it’s nearly half an hour to Lorenz’s beachfront cottage, and it’s dark, and Claude doesn’t mind the extra legwork. It’s not much further to his farm after that.

(He has no expectations. He’s been polite all evening, and Lorenz has been warm and receptive, but has kept him at arm’s length; at least compared to last week at the Prism. So. No expectations. Just a nice evening walk in the summer warmth, with the stars and the breeze for company. The beauty at his side is just a nice bonus.)

“Are you the one who bought me dinner?” he asks as they leave the lights of Pelican Town behind them. The moon is bright, so they don’t need a flashlight—their feet follow the neat dirt road without issue, and if their arms brush occasionally, wrists and knuckles teasing, breaths catching, that’s just coincidence.

“You looked like you needed it,” Lorenz says. “And it seemed like a nice gesture. You didn’t have to pay me back.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The wine. That was top shelf stuff.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t going to feed you _swill_. Please. And that wasn’t payback.”

“No?” He sounds like he’s smiling, but it the dark it’s impossible to tell for sure. “What was it, then?”

“Just buying a beautiful man a drink,” Claude says, shrugging off the weight of it. “The way people do when they want someone to pay attention to them.”

Lorenz hums, and this time when his knuckles brush the back of Claude’s hand, it feels deliberate. “I think it’s safe to say I’m paying attention.” Their fingers slide together and entwine. Claude, grinning in the dark, almost misses his next words. “I think most, if not all, of Pelican Town is paying attention. You’ve brought a breath of fresh air with you.”

“You think so?” Claude asks, his smile slipping at the honesty in Lorenz’s voice.

“I’ve only lived here a little over a year, but even I can tell. Things haven’t been easy on our little town. When JojaCorp filed for bankruptcy in the wake of the lawsuit, Pierre had to scramble to cover the gap. Then Ferdinand was brought in as mayor, and things have been looking up, but it’s slow progress without a proper farm. Most people have to bus into Oasis Springs if the want more than the basics.”

“I feel like… people are surprised that I’m still here,” Claude says. “I mean, it’s hard work, but compared to what I was doing before…”

“What _were_ you doing before?” Lorenz asks curiously.

“You might hate me if I tell you.”

“Hmmm.” Lorenz’s voice turns warm and molten. “I doubt it.”

“I was a pencil-pusher for JojaCorp. Worked in finance, if you can believe it.”

Lorenz lets out a bark of laughter, totally unrefined. “Truly?”

“Scout’s honor. It started as a gig to keep me afloat after I graduated but… it was hard to find anything else that I really wanted, and I figured it was better to keep my head down and keep collecting seniority as the years ticked by rather than hop between jobs I didn’t really enjoy. And before I knew it I was junior manager of the pencil-pusher department and fucking hating my life, every second of it.” He swallows. “Sorry. That was probably a little too real, huh.”

“It’s all right.” Lorenz gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Their footsteps slow a little, but they keep walking, letting the cool night breeze fill the gaps between their words. “Before I moved here, I was similarly… shackled. Not to a job, but to my family. Being able to exist on my own terms has been. Well. A bit miraculous, really.”

Claude thinks of the farm—the wet smell of dirt in the morning after an evening’s rain; the way dew clings to the grass where he’s left it long to attract honeybees; the swift flutter of bat’s wings in the evening as they dart about, silhouetted against a pale lavender sky—and smiles. “Yeah. I think I know what you mean.”

They walk quietly together for a bit longer, and Claude doesn’t particularly feel the need to prod the conversation back to life. But after a minute or two of listening to the slough of the waves on the beach growing closer and closer, Lorenz says, “I hope you do stay. In Pelican Town.”

“That’s the plan so far, unless I well and truly botch this first growing season.”

“There’s nothing drawing you back?

“Nope. I don’t have family there anymore, and my school friends had all moved on to greener pastures. I’m still settling here, but… I have a good feeling.”

“So do I.”

This time the companionable quiet carries them all the way to the beach, where the hard-packed dirt gives way to firm sand. Lorenz’s cottage sits far back from the tideline on a stilted foundation, embraced at the rear by the encroaching forest and spiling out in front into an eclectic driftwood garden dotted with little solar lanterns. An open deck faces the ocean with just one lounge chair set out, and sliding glass doors beyond are cracked open to admit a cool breeze.

Claude is prepared to withdraw, though he burns with curiosity about where Lorenz lives. But Lorenz continues to hold his hand, leading the way up onto the deck, and finally turns and says, a touch shyly, “Would you like something to drink? For your trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Claude assures him, but his heart gives a foolish little leap at the invitation to stay. “But I’ll take a drink, if you’re offering.”

“What would you like? I have some lavender lemonade, or tea, or water… or I could mix up something a little stronger.”

Claude takes a deep breath, catches a whiff of that delicate floral musk clinging to his hair. It’s hard to tell in the darkness, but he thinks Lorenz is smiling as he takes another step closer, getting into his personal space. They’ve come this far, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Lorenz’s mouth all week. “What’s the _something stronger_?” he asks, deliberately pitching his voice low.

“Well…” Oh yeah, he’s _definitely_ smiling; Claude can hear it in his voice. “I _could_ tell you… or would you prefer to be surprised?”

Claude’s memory sparks like a struck match and he gives himself a mental high five as he purrs, “I like a little mystery.”

Lorenz snickers at the callback, but it’s swallowed by the pressure of Claude’s lips on his. It’s a fairly chaste kiss, all things considered, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Lorenz tilts his head, parting his lips and letting a bit of softness, a bit of wet, bleed into the kiss. Claude licks his own lips, and a moment later feels the slick of Lorenz’s tongue on his, teasing, inviting itself into his mouth.

He groans, and the reverb echoes back as he wraps his fingers around Lorenz’s narrow hips. It kickstarts his heart in his chest, coaxes his hands up to tease the narrow strip of skin between Lorenz’s shirt hem and the waistband of his jeans.

“Here,” Lorenz says against his lips. His hands are on Claude’s broad shoulders. They pull at him, coaxing him down, down to sit on the lounge chair side by side.

It’s a little better—nice not to have to crane his neck to kiss him—but Claude has always aimed for the stars. He kisses with intent, listening, feeling for resistance. But Lorenz is just as pliant and eager as he’d been last week. It hardly takes more than a minute or two before he’s leaning back against the lounger, soft fingers feeling up Claude’s biceps as he leans over him and tastes him like he’s starved for it.

At last, Claude lets his lower lip slide from Lorenz’s mouth with a soft, wet sound, thumb stroking his ribs through soft yellow seersucker. The subtle swell of his breast ends in a sharp point, and it takes every ounce of willpower in his body not to pinch that delicious softness. “Are you wearing anything under this?”

Lorenz licks his lips and smiles. “Want to find out?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Claude huffs through his nose, a little self-deprecating laugh. “Can I?”

“I dearly wish you would.”

In the faint light of the solar bulbs dotting the driftwood garden, Claude opens Lorenz’s shirt one button at a time. His skin is smooth, paler in the moonlight, and soft as silk against his palm, ending in a stiff peak where a nipple pebbles under his touch. Claude rubs his thumb over it, back and forth. Back and forth. Teases his tongue against Lorenz’s own. Lorenz inhales sharply and sighs against his cheek, and Claude gives in, pinching his nipple, rolling it between his fingers until Lorenz’s breath becomes a whimper.

“You’re beautiful,” Claude whispers, subsiding. He runs his knuckles along the creamy-soft underside and pulls the shirt open a little wider. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

“You’re no good for my ego,” Lorenz warns, but he’s breathless and starting to sweat beneath the praise. His blouse is tied in a little knotted bow at the waist, closing off the row of neat pearl buttons, and he tugs at it until it unravels, exposing his entire torso to Claude’s touch.

“I think I’m excellent for your everything.” Claude cups his soft chest with both hands and squeezes, relishing the way his nipples catch between his fingers. “Can I kiss you?”

“You’ve _been_ kissing me.”

“I mean… here.” He ducks his head and smudges a kiss to Lorenz’s sternum in illustration. A moment later there’s fingers in his hair, long and coaxing. Claude smiles, and lets himself be coaxed.

It’s only when he has Lorenz flat on his back, mouth lapping hungrily at his lovely tits, that he wonders whether he’s gone too far. _Just a walk home_ , he’d told himself—and he truly had meant it. Now that he knows Lorenz is practically a neighbor, he wants to take his time. Wants to… well, _court_ isn’t really the term, but he’d like to at least date him properly, treat him right. The way he’s slurping at one nipple while massaging the other is hardly second date material.

“Lorenz,” he hums, nuzzling in the valley of his sternum, “is this… am I going to fast? Is this okay?”

The fingers in his hair tighten slightly, stinging his scalp, and Claude is abruptly reminded that he’s not entirely the one in control, here. “It’s a little fast, maybe,” Lorenz allows, sounding breathless, “but if you stop now I’ll be _very_ cross with you.”

Claude giggles at his old-fashioned mannerisms, and happily allows himself to be pushed back down into Lorenz’s chest.

He doesn’t question him again, but he does check in every so often. Like when he’s kissing down his ribs, straying nearer and nearer to the fly of his jeans clasped snug around his waist. He touches his lips to the soft skin of his waist and casts his best puppy-dog eyes northward. Lorenz, flushed down his chest, nipples puffy and still damp from attention, answers this by tearing open his jeans and shoving them down his hips. Claude laughs and wrestles him free of the artfully distressed denim, and then answers the invitation of his hands, crawling up the lounger to put his tongue back into Lorenz’s mouth.

“Hi,” he mumbles nonsensically. One arm is crooked beneath Lorenz’s neck to keep them at eye level with each other; the other hand has wandered to the dip of his waist, pronounced from lying on their sides, legs half-tangled shyly at the other end of the lounger.

“Hello.” Lorenz licks reddened lips and traces a finger up Claude’s chest. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to take this off?”

Claude grins. “I dunno. Seems like a fair trade.” He gives Lorenz’s tits one more friendly grope and sits up slightly to drag his shirt over his head. When he lies back down Lorenz’s eyes are wide and shining in the dark, and his hands are quick to follow their path.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he murmurs as he gives Claude’s pecs a squeeze.

“Touch as much as you like,” Claude says against his neck, breathing in the spicy-sweet smell of his hair. He still doesn’t have complete sensation everywhere, maybe never will, but it still feels good to be seen, to be admired.

Lorenz touches him with a funny kind of gravitas—like he’s charting new territory. He pets through the hair on his chest, kisses his collarbones softly, skirting the edges of his scars. He nuzzles under Claude’s chin to kiss his throat, to twist his nipples til he gasps. Fumbling, floating, Claude mimics the sweep of his hands, the crackling energy singing between their skin, and hitches one long, pale thigh over his own.

He hadn’t gotten a good look in the dark, but the fabric of his panties feels like lace. He gives Lorenz’s bum a squeeze, tentative, and is immediately usurped by the pressure of a hand between his thighs, feeling out the edge of his packer.

“You can—” Claude begins, and hesitates, struck dumb yet again by Lorenz’s fearlessness. He touches without censure, accepts touch with grace and energy, overflowing with it.

“Hmmmmm?” Lorenz looks at him, hand hovering over his belly, expectant.

“I was just going to say, you can touch me. However… wherever.”

Lorenz slips the button of his jeans free. “Here?”

“Yes,” Claude rasps.

Two slim fingers hook into the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Here…?”

“ _Yes_.”

Lorenz is deft and clever. And, best of all, he requires no instruction. Claude has never encountered him wearing a packer or binder or anything to alter the shape of his body, but he supposes, as Lorenz divests him easily of jeans and briefs and everything that entails, that doesn’t mean he never has.

And then he is naked, being kissed so deeply he’s nearly tingling for want of air. He digs his fingers into Lorenz’s hips and pulls him closer, eager to feel the heat of him. “Are you comfortable?” Lorenz asks between kisses, between running his fingers through Claude’s hair and holding him in place to suck marks into his throat. “We could… move to the bedroom. If you wanted.”

“We could,” Claude wheezes. He’s neutral on the idea—either way he’ll have Lorenz naked (mostly) in his lap, and that’s a prize he can savor here or in a bedroom. “Would you prefer it?”

“We would have more room,” Lorenz says, pointedly nudging Claude’s leg right off the cushion. “To spread out…”

“Yeah, all right. Point taken.”

It’s sort of surreal, leaving all his clothes behind on the deck and letting Lorenz lead him by the hand through the dark house to the bedroom. There’s a nightlight in the bathroom that bleeds out into the master suite, faintly outlining a large bed, a wardrobe, an ottoman, a vanity. But he has other priorities.

The sheets are cool to the touch as he slides between them and is immediately welcomed into Lorenz’s arms. Lorenz has discarded his undone shirt, and, Claude quickly realizes, his underwear as well—one lean thigh slips between his, and his core is warm and damp near the crease of his hip. All it takes is a gentle touch to his sacrum and Lorenz is coaxed into a little rocking motion, a tentative rhythm that deepens and quickens in equal measure with a moan.

“Can I,” Lorenz whispers, and gulps as Claude digs his fingers slightly into his backside.

Claude is feeling indulgent. “The answer is yes, baby, whatever you want.”

Lorenz presses his lips to Claude’s throat, the faint pressure of hungry teeth following just behind. “Can I have your fingers again?”

 _Oh_. “Of course.

“Unless,” Lorenz is already saying, practically talking over him, all his earlier bravado traded for uncertainty, “if we wanted to… to take our time…”

“Do we?” Claude asks. He runs a finger between Lorenz’s thighs and nudges his clit with his knuckle, soft at first and then harder when Lorenz squeaks and rocks against his hand. “You tell me. What do you want, sweetheart?”

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Lorenz grits out, and it’s all the instruction Claude needs.

Lorenz was right—the extra room in bed is worth the move. This way Claude can sprawl on his belly, grind his cock against Lorenz’s thigh while he fucks him with two fingers, thumb toying mercilessly with his clit. Now that they’re in private, not cooped up in a bathroom stall hardly daring to breathe, Lorenz lets himself be loud. And the _sounds_. Claude isn’t usually the type to make a lot of noise in bed, but Lorenz is unapologetic, moaning and gasping and squealing whenever Claude hits his sweet spot just right.

“Gorgeous,” Claude tells him, and Lorenz wails, squeezing around his fingers. Claude feels his own pelvis tighten in sympathy. He rubs his thumb alongside Lorenz’s clit, just shy of overstimulating. “I want you to tell me when you cum, I want to hear you.”

“Please,” Lorenz whimpers. In the near-dark he is just breath and sound and weight against Claude’s body, the occasional flash of a pale limb extended in bliss. When he convulses with orgasm, crying out so sharply Claude almost thinks he’s in pain, the sensation of it is electrifying, felt rather than seen. “I’m cumming,” he gasps, just when Claude thinks he’s winding down, “oh god, fuck, I’m cumming, _ah_ —”

Another wave, another stab of sympathetic feeling rippling through him. Claude can’t take it anymore. With three fingers held tight by the strain of Lorenz’s body, he kneels up for leverage and starts jerking himself off, switching to a rubbing motion when his slickness defies a decent grip. The first crest catches him up and he grunts, right hand growing slack and clumsy.

“Yes.” Lorenz, ragged at the edges, grabs weakly for his hips, pulling him in. “I want to suck you, please, please—”

“Christ,” Claude mutters. He reaches out blindly, finds a headboard, holds himself as still as he can bear as Lorenz leans up on his elbows and runs his tongue over his cock, over and over. “Jesus, Lorenz, _fuck_.”

Lorenz is messy, messier than he had been last week at Prism. Maybe it’s the multiple orgasms, maybe it’s his own bed making his comfortable and easy, but Claude loves it; loves hearing the sound of lips on him in the dark. Tentative, Claude lets himself moan through it, soft at first and then louder, fingers tightening around the headboard as he cums.

He sees nothing at all for a moment; then spots dance in his vision, and when they clear, Lorenz is still staring up at him, panting for breath against his dick. Lorenz smiles, he thinks—it’s difficult to tell—and Claude cups his jaw in one hand, running a thumb over the slickness he left behind. “Talented boy,” he whispers, and Lorenz whines against his palm at the praise. “Lay back.”

Moving carefully in the dark, Claude edges down the bed. He’s so preoccupied with not accidentally kneeling on his host that he almost misses it when Lorenz says, “Can I get the light?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course.”

He smothers his face in Lorenz’s soft belly, squinting, but the bedside lamp is low and warm, and his eyes adjust quickly. When he sits back on his heels, Lorenz is watching him. Pink in the cheeks, his lips reddened, thighs splayed open and on display. Claude had felt it with his hands, earlier, but now he has the proof: Lorenz must shave, or wax, or _something_ , because his pussy is hairless and smooth, lips parted slightly to expose the dark blush color of his vulva.

“Like what you see?” Lorenz asks archly. His voice has gone a little hoarse from the racket he was making, and it sends prickles running down Claude’s spine.

“Does the carpet match the drapes?” he replies instead of answering in the obvious affirmative. He snickers at Lorenz’s haughty sniff and refusal to answer, and gets down on his elbows, kissing a soft apology to his silky-soft mound. “Can I, baby?” he murmurs. “Please?”

“ _Please_ ,” Lorenz echoes at a whisper.

He hooks a leg over Claude’s shoulder and drags him in, and this time Claude gets a proper taste of him, not just the juices still staining his fingers. He drags his tongue between Lorenz’s folds, teases his clit briefly just to hear him squeal. Then nuzzles deeper, fucking him shallowly with his tongue until Lorenz whines and begs him for something more substantial.

“Have any toys?” Claude asks, teasing his rim with the tip of a finger. He’s still plenty loose from earlier, and Claude is aching to see him properly stretched around one of his cocks. The purple one, he thinks, looking at that beautiful lavender hair spread across the pillow.

“Y-yes,” Lorenz stammers. His eyes flick to the wardrobe. “Bottom drawer. Pick anything, it’s all clean.”

From the immaculate state of his bedroom, now that Claude can see it, he’s not surprised. He rolls off the bed, gives Lorenz’s knobbly, up-turned knee a quick kiss, and goes to investigate.

“Jesus. This is quite a collection.”

“I like to have options,” Lorenz says primly. When Claude turns back, a thick black dildo in hand with a decent loop at the end for gripping, Lorenz is rubbing between his legs in slow circles, breath starting to come faster in his chest.

“Getting started without me, huh?”

“Just… _ha…_ getting ready.” With an adorable look of concentration, Lorenz presses three long fingers into his body—then, as Claude watches, his pinky as well, mouth dropping open as he fucks himself all the way to his knuckles. The sound of it, the vision he makes, has Claude scrambling onto the bed and kneeling up between his legs.

“I promise I’ll bring my dick next time,” he says, thinking longingly of his harness sitting uselessly at the bottom of his underwear drawer at home.

“I look forward to it, but tonight has hardly been a disappointment.” Despite his crisp words, their enunciation blurs a little around the edges. He shudders and stills, and for a moment Claude thinks he’s cumming again—but he subsides with quick little panting breaths and eases his fingers out to fumble in the side table. “Here,” he stammers, “lube,” and practically thrusts the bottle at him.

“On it.”

Claude’s hands shake slightly as he slicks the dildo. Not because he’s nervous, really—he’s already had Lorenz with his hands and his mouth, this is just the logical next step—but with excitement, and something else he can’t put his finger on. Disbelief, maybe, that this is happening. That he’s stumbled into the arms and the bed of someone so beautiful, so full of snark and wit, who looks at him with desire and is so shamelessly himself. He’s never clicked with someone so quickly before, and part of him wants to thank the booze last week for softening the barriers he usually keeps in place; but another part, a bigger part, thinks it has more to do with his new life and new mindset than the alcohol.

“Legs up,” he says, and Lorenz obeys, lifting his legs to drape them over Claude’s shoulders. Claude kisses the inside of one knee and nestles the head of the dildo against him. “Ready?”

“ _Yes_. More than.”

Despite his impatience, Lorenz’s nostrils still flare and his lips purse with strain as Claude eases the first inch or so into his body. He holds it there, waiting, watching. When Lorenz’s mouth softens into an _O_ shape, he nudges it forward again, and forward, easing it back and forth, deeper and deeper until Lorenz is full and Claude’s knuckles are brushing up against his clit.

“Ahhhh… you picked this one on purpose, didn’t you.”

Claude smirks. “Size queen, are we?”

“What—nghh—gave it away?”

“I’m not sure… I think I began to suspect when it took three fingers just to get you off in the washroom at Prism.” Claude punctuates the gentle accusation with a twist of the dildo, and grins when Lorenz’s eyes roll back in his head, cutting off whatever protest he’d been about to make. “I don’t think I have anything this big, but we can improvise.”

Lorenz’s only reply is a whimper, trailing off into a strangled gasp at the next inward press. Claude can feel himself throb in sympathy, and he squeezes his thighs together for a little extra sensation. His left hand, draped over Lorenz’s knee, moves lower, thumb teasing the hood of his clit even as the dildo stretches his body almost to its limit. The added stimulation works like a charm. Lorenz writhes, hiccuping as he arches and squirms on the bed, pinned in place by Claude’s body and the thick toy inside him. Unable to escape, he cries out and cums, this time with a squirt of ejaculate that sprays hot over Claude’s wrist and forearm.

“Fuck—sorry,” he wheezes, voice hitching as Claude eases the dildo out of him. “That doesn’t—usually happen.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.” Unsure what to do with the toy, which is actually rather heavy, Claude lets Lorenz’s legs down from his shoulders and clambers out of bed. “What should I do with…?”

“Oh.” Voice gone thin, as though he’s on the verge of a swoon, Lorenz lifts his head an inch or two from the pillow. “The ensuite—just put it in the sink, I can take care of it later.”

“Got it.” Claude hesitates, then leans in and kisses him, soft and chaste. From the look on his face when he withdraws, it was the right move.

He still feels a right dick to just leave the dildo in the sink for later, so he rinses it and gives it a halfhearted lather with the bar of mild soap sitting in its dish. Then he uses he restroom, washes his hands, tries to tidy his hair a bit, and returns to the bedroom.

Lorenz is still flat out, fucked boneless until his body is melting into the sheets. He rouses enough to beckon Claude back to bed. Thus summoned, Claude crawls back onto the mattress and lays next to him, uncertain.

“Are you not a cuddler?” Lorenz mumbles. He doesn’t sound disappointed, but Claude still answers honestly.

“I am, I just wasn’t sure if _you_ were.”

“Claude.” Lorenz’s eyes are shut, but his voice is very stern. “Come cuddle me this instant, or you can get out of bed and walk home.”

Claude snickers, but does as he’s told. “I mean,” he says, finally getting a breathful of that sweet, flower-tinged hair, “that was kind of what I was planning to do anyway. At some point. Whenever you’re sick of me.” He brushes an open hand over Lorenz’s ribs, flush with the rhythm of his breathing, and runs his fingertips lightly over his breast. His next inhale is deep, pointed, inviting Claude’s hand to cup him fully. “Just say the word.”

“Claude,” Lorenz murmurs again, “stop talking.”

“But—”

“Kiss me instead.”

Claude does. Thoroughly.

“And stay the night,” Lorenz whispers. His eyes are open now, and bright, and his hair is a lilac waterfall streaming through Claude’s fingers. “If you want to.”

“It is pretty late,” Claude agrees without looking around for the time. Another kiss, this time with tongue. “You should use the bathroom, probably, after having that monster of a thing up in you.”

Lorenz’s eyebrows buckle with silent laughter. “I keep my toys well-maintained, you know.”

“Still. My fingers were in you, too.”

“If I pee and turn out the light, will you stay?”

Claude chews his lip. He hasn’t slept with anyone—slept in their _bed—_ in years. The last person he’d shared a bed with had gotten a better job offer in another city and left him behind with minimal heartbreak on her end, and he’s gotten used to sprawling out. To being sloppy and careless and _alone_.

But Lorenz’s skin is soft, and his eyes are sweet and heavy-lidded, and he smells nice. And Claude _likes_ him, dammit. He likes him a lot.

“All right,” he says, after what feels like a small eternity of mulling it over. But he means it more for having thought it out, and he thinks Lorenz understands. “If I snore, pinch me.” He gives his tit a squeeze in illustration and Lorenz shakes with laughter.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

As promised, Lorenz takes his turn in the bathroom, and by the time he returns Claude is already half-asleep. Hard manual labor and long days in the sun have done what city life never could. Pile Lorenz’s plush-soft bedding on top of that and he’s out like a light.

He doesn’t wake up until morning. Early, as is his wont these days, coaxed awake by the stripe of 6 AM sunlight streaming in through the half-open door. Lorenz is sleeping heavily beside him, his body shaped into a fastidious little half-moon with his knees drawn up slightly and his hands tucked beneath the pillow. Picture-perfect. Claude admires him a moment or two and slips out of bed to answer the call of nature.

When he’s finished, instead of returning to bed, he picks his way through the rest of the house, brimming with curiosity. It’s really rather small, but very chic and well-maintained. The bedroom and ensuite make up most of the back half of the house, along with—he assumes—some sort of laundry room or storage. The middle of the house is galley kitchen with an island bar that looks out over a cosy sitting area, complete with woven rugs and tropical plants in minimalist pots that make the place look right out of a travel magazine.

The entire front wall of the house is windows. Outside is the deck, and the garden, and the beach beyond, golden-white all the way down to the tideline. He can see their clothes still sitting on the deck by the lounge chair, no doubt damp with dew by now. Even so, he slips out the sliding glass door and hops into his boxer briefs, after a thorough shaking and inspection for ants or other unfortunate tenants.

It’s a bit cool so near the water, but the riding sun is warm on his bare skin. He leans against the railing and shuts his eyes. _Damn_. He loves his own little farmhouse, with all its aging quirks and corners, and the big front deck, and the beautiful wooden floors his grandfather had refinished himself. But this… this is nice.

He could get used to this.

He loses track of time, a bit, and startles at the feel of warm hands on his back. But it’s only Lorenz, still heavy-eyed with sleep, wearing a sheer embroidered dressing gown and very little else as he wraps his arms around Claude from behind.

“Sleep all right?” he mumbles, words stamped into the skin of his shoulder blades. Claude finds his slim hand tucked up against his ribs and laces their fingers together there.

“Yeah. Amazingly well, considering…” _Considering I’m not used to sharing, and the bed was new to me, and this whole thing is new to me but I think I like it._ It feels like too much to say at once. Lorenz doesn’t press him; just kisses his back and pulls away slowly to stand beside him instead.

“So,” he says, pulling his fingers through his hair and twisting it into a loose, frizzy bun behind his left ear. The wind tugs at him, rippling over his dressing gown, teasing strands of violet hair around his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. He sees Claude looking, and smiles. “How about that drink?”

Claude stares a moment—then laughs. “I would love one. Maybe not lemonade, though.”

“Coffee? Tea?” With a strange sort of ease, as though they’ve known each other far longer than just two nights, Lorenz winds his arms around Claude’s shoulders and leans into him, belly to belly. “I have a lovely French press, and a fine selection of teas for whatever strikes your palate’s fancy.”

Claude burrows his hands in the fine transparent material of Lorenz’s dressing gown and pulls him closer still. “Do you always talk like that?” he wonders, smiling and stupidly charmed.

“I’m afraid so. Does it put you off?”

“Not in the least.” He gives that narrow waist a squeeze and finds one hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “I will take you up on your offer of coffee, my lord. Or is it my lady?”

“Either.” Lorenz shrugs, unconcerned. At ease in his own skin. Claude feels a brief ripple of old envy—silly, really; he’s happy with what he’s got—that bleeds into respect, and blossoms into reverence. “But that’s a conversation for _after_ I’ve had tea and breakfast. Come.” He pecks Claude briefly on the lips, and pulls him back toward the door. “Let’s get to know each other better, what do you say?”


End file.
